Deadline
by Celestially
Summary: If Wilson REALLY wants to finish doing his paperwork before the deadline, he probably shouldn’t waste so much time telling House why he can’t go to lunch with him. Or doing any of the other stuff he does instead of work.


**Deadline**

"My name is Dr. James Wilson," House announced triumphantly as he pushed open the door of Wilson's office.

"That sounds just like me," Wilson interrupted, with not much more than a quick glance up from the document he was perusing. With a quick signature he closed the file and added it to the "Deceased – Completed" pile and grabbed another one from "Deceased – Incomplete."

"I enjoy going to the movies by myself, making references to 1970's Saturday Morning Cartoons—"

"Shape of: _someone who __cares_."

"—and buying my bestest friend Gregory lunch," House continued, hitting the front of Wilson's desk with the butt of his cane. Wilson automatically reached forward to prevent the scattered piles from toppling over, despite the fact that none of them were in danger of doing so. "So what do you say?" House added.

"I would love to, _Gregory_," Wilson started, but almost automatically frowned and looked up at House. "Calling you by your first name makes me feel like I'm talking to a ten-year-old."

"Would it help if I told you that the ten-year-old is very hungry?" House asked.

"Unfortunately not," Wilson answered, which quickly turned into a half-sigh as he looked back down at the paperwork.

After an unnaturally long pause, House leaned over the tallest stack, which Wilson remembered was "Terminal – Incomplete," and grabbed the top one, flipping it open carelessly. "Patient: Bonner, Marie."

"Hey!" Wilson snapped, snatching the folder back from House's lean hands, watching the muscles twitch next to the veins. "Contrary to popular belief, the things on my desk are _not_ toys."

"Don't you have lackeys who can do that for you?" House impatiently leaned back, an annoyed scowl on his face. "You know, people who don't hang out with me?"

"Well _that_ rules out a lot of people." Wilson snorted. "Just 'cause you have your lackeys doing paperwork for you, it doesn't mean that the other department heads cut those same corners."

"Perkins from Cardiology does," House pointed out.

"Perkins from Cardiology also plans on retiring soon and doesn't care about paperwork anymore." Wilson turned the page on the file he was going over. "Seeing as I wanna keep my job for the next x-number of years, I'd rather stay in Cuddy's good graces."

"I haven't done paperwork in almost ten years, and _I'm_ in Cuddy's good graces."

"No you aren't."

"I haven't been fired yet, have I?" House accentuated his point by raising his eyebrows, pressing his lips together, and cocking his head to the side.

"No, surprisingly." Wilson looked up from his file, pinching the bridge of his nose in order to alleviate his headache. "House, in case you haven't noticed, I have a lot of things to do here, and I only have the end of the day to finish. So can I finish this, and then I'll ... I dunno, buy you dinner or something?"

"Aw, but I'm hungry now!" House whined sarcastically, which earned him a pointed stare from Wilson. "Why are you so behind on your paperwork, anyway?" Something clicked and House stepped closer to the desk, locking eyes with Wilson so as to discover what they were hiding. "You're never behind. Got anything you'd like to tell me?"

"I guess the jig is up then, huh?" Wilson said, putting his pen down on the table. "By day I'm a successful doctor, but by night I'm a highway bandito, stealing gold coins and precious jewels from little old ladies as they drive to bridge games along US 1." He tried not to smirk as House turned away, annoyed, limping towards the other side of the room. "And I'm just ... I'm just so tired by morning that I don't have the energy to do my paper—"

"Okay, I get it," House snapped.

"I'm just behind, there's really nothing to it," Wilson explained, a sincere smile on his face. "I just put off doing this paperwork until the last minute, and I unlike you I don't have four patients a month, so when it piles up it _really piles up_."

"Yeah, _if_ _only_ I had four patients a month," House complained. "Things would be a lot more exciting. Less Clinic duty. I'm lucky when I get _two_ sometimes."

"I procrastinated, and now I'm suffering for it." Wilson exhaled loudly, looking back down at Cooper, Peter's file. "Apparently a lot."

"Apparently a lot what?" House suddenly asked.

"...apparently I'm suffering a lot," Wilson repeated.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because now _you're_ bothering me, and it's preventing me from getting my work done."

House didn't answer, which Wilson chose not to dwell on so he could just keep on working. He didn't think much of it, either, when the familiar step-thud seemed to move in his direction. He decided that he would rather that House do something creepy like watch him work than speak.

A minute later, when he realized that House _was_ watching him work, he regretted thinking that.

"What?" Wilson asked self-consciously, looking up to see House staring intently at the top of the desk.

"For a man who's usually so meticulously neat and organized, why are your files so all over the place?" House asked, still looking at the desk.

"This isn't a puzzle, House," Wilson answered impatiently, looking back down at his work.

"Maybe, maybe not. But it's still interesting."

Wilson had grown to hate that word so much. But he didn't feel like wasting time arguing about it again. "It's ... all that matters is that I know what I'm doing," he offered as an answer. "And I ... I have a system, it's not like I just threw them all over the desk. It's kind of like organized mess." He emphasized the last bit with an odd swirling hand gesture that he felt explained everything, and which he knew House understood as well because, frankly, he was _House_.

"_How_ did you procrastinate?" House continued, now staring down at Wilson, his gaze no less intense than before.

"You know how ... disturbing that just sounded, right?" Wilson asked. "With the look you're giving me and the way you asked the question, it sounded like you asked me whether or not I was—never mind." He shook his head. "I don't know, trying to find a good download of Solitaire, Free Cell, or Minesweeper for my new computer? Polishing my trophies? Talking to my mother on the phone?"

"You're such a Momma's boy," House goaded.

"It was her _birthday_!" Wilson protested.

"_I_ don't call _my_ mother on _her_ birthday."

"Yeah, _she_ just calls_ you_." Wilson smiled proudly at House's silence, thinking he'd won the argument that had seemingly come up. "But really. I've gotta get back to work," he added sternly, hoping House would get the hint.

"What if I needed to talk to someone?" House suddenly asked, looking down at the carpet.

Bomb dropped. Wilson raised his eyebrows and put down his pen. "..._do_ you need to talk to someone?"

"Yeah," House admitted, holding his gaze at the floor right in front of him. "I need to talk to someone."

Wilson frowned in concern. "And that someone is—"

"You. That someone—I need to talk to _you_."

"You need to talk to me?" Wilson asked, pushing his chair back so he could stand. He wished that House hadn't been looking the other way so he could make eye contact.

"Yeah. We need to talk," House responded, nodding his head.

"Is ... is everything okay? I mean ... what do we need to talk ... about?" Wilson stood, moving around his desk so he could face the other man. "...House?"

House suddenly looked up, his face mere inches from Wilson's as he said: "I knew it." Wilson found himself taken aback by the wide-eyed frustration that House was exhibiting, particularly because it also was accompanied by a smile that was telling Wilson: "I am right and you are wrong."

"Knew ... what?" Wilson asked, failing miserably to hide his shock.

"You'd drop everything you were doing if I wanted to _talk_, but you won't even _feed_ me?" House exhaled in frustration and limped towards the couch.

"You ... you—" Wilson stuttered, trying not to think of the ridiculous expression he probably had on his face. "You sounded like you needed to confide in someone!"

"Which you were _more_ than welcome to help me with," House accused, stretching his legs out on the couch.

"Because I was worried about you!"

"Because you _like_ it when you get the chance to help someone."

"You're my best friend!" Wilson half-shouted, annoyed that this topic had come up again. "And, in case you haven't noticed, I was in the middle of helping a lot of other people, Cuddy and her lawyers included, by going through paperwork and making sure that everyone is in order! So I could have been getting my supposed helping-other-people kick there."

"Oh, so no _wonder_ you wanted to finish it." House rolled his eyes and looked out at a flock of birds swirling around in the distance.

"But you know what?" Wilson continued. "I was willing to stop that in order to listen to whatever you had to tell me, because you're my friend, and if you ever need anything I'm willing to help—_except for_ _food and entertainment when I'm trying to work_." He turned back towards his desk, quietly adding: "God knows you never tell me anything to begin with."

"So you were just jumping on the opportunity of me confiding in you, then?" House asked. He wasn't angry, or offended, or anything other than oddly content. He was _enjoying_ the argument for what it was: sporting banter with his best friend. The bastard was doing this on purpose because he was bored. And Wilson's deadline actually made things even _more_ entertaining, because of the higher stakes of the situation.

His college acting professor's words about high stakes and objectives ran through his head, and he immediately pushed them out because they had wasted his time _then_ and they were wasting his time _now_.

"Please, House, I..." As House moved to stand, Wilson's hand returned to the bridge of his nose. He would have pushed it back down to his side if the motion hadn't been so innately comforting. "I have a lot to do right now. Can I just ... buy you dinner later? _Cook_ you dinner later? I don't know, I don't care, I just need to get back to work."

House stood in place, once again staring directly at Wilson, searching for some kind of clue or answer or whatever House did when he stared at a person that way. Wilson _still_ hadn't figured it out, and wasn't sure if he ever would. But House's scowl relented into a slight smile and he rolled his eyes. "You owe me."

"I sure do," Wilson answered. He would have loved to say something else in response, but appeasing House would get him to leave the room _faster_.

Surprisingly, House didn't attempt an exit line as he opened the door to the office, as usual not bothering to make sure that it closed behind him. The office shut itself up with Wilson left trapped inside. The energy of the room fizzled out, a poetic anticlimax to what had just happened between them.

He suddenly felt _incredibly_ disappointed.

In hindsight, the "high stakes" that Wilson had previously drawn attention to were trite. He could have just as easily taken a break and left work an hour later to finish the paperwork. And that, honestly, had been what was saving his flimsy objective from completely falling apart. It should have been more specific than "to get House to leave." Even "to get House to _agree_ to leave would have been better," but still ultimately too negative. No, that was horrible. He'd have to do it again, only this time—

"Oh, shut up, Gary," Wilson told the voice of his old acting teacher, which immediately faded back into his memories. Acting had never been his thing anyway, he decided as he got back to work.


End file.
